Hung the Moon
by basil and dill
Summary: Oscar writes Jude a letter which he leaves for her before he heads off to work. Established relationship implied, story taking place 5 years after the end of the book.


Jude,

Now I know we don't do the soppy-love-letter-by-the-morning-coffee-mug routine (not that this is a soppy love letter) so you're about as confused as I am right now, trust me love. I don't know why but I felt an urge to say this because somehow, unnoticed by me, you slipped into my life. Slowly, so slowly, one finger at a time, until there you were.

And when you look at me with your head to one side and a smile inching up the other you make me feel as if every atom on this earth let out a sigh and eased into rest. You make me feel as if everything is going to be alright and that I was a fool to even play host to thoughts of otherwise. When you look at me and your eyes crinkle in the corners, one eyebrow always slightly above the other, you make me think of impossible things.

You make me think that I'm strong enough to hang the moon, even as I take in my lanky figure in the mirror. You make me think that I coaxed the sun, whispered sweet nothings in its ear, to get it to rise in the mornings. You of all people know that my whispered words amount to nothing more than odd endearments that bend you into a semi-colon and make you laugh into my pillow – _peach pit, pookie, love muffin_.

Don't ask me why, but somehow you make me think that I stood outside one dark night looking at the dark expanse above me. That I dabbed spots of glue across the entire universe and threw handfuls of golden glitter, like confetti, and created the stars – shining breadcrumbs to replace the burnt-out streetlights on your way to me.

You laugh.

I know, I'm laughing too. It's ludicrous.

My purple gluestick is crusty from lack of use and I hid the glitter after my friend's niece left because they were impossible to vacuum from between the cracks of the hardwood.

You remember, don't you?

We were on our hands and knees for a week after Lily left, scraping toothpicks between the wooden cracks, trying to make my flat look like less of a Barbie dream house. I grumbled about it but really I was glad because it gave you an excuse to stay longer.

Not that you needed one.

Not that you ever need one.

When you look at me I know you can see my faults. How could you not? Their edges poke out from underneath my skin and they make my clothes hang funny. Some days they coalesce into shadows which drag at my heels and darken my eyes and I'm not crazy because I know you can see them too. Sometimes you leave a little extra space between us on the sofa but other times you sit so tight by my side that it feels as if we're breathing as one, leaving no room for the shadows to creep between us. I don't know how you know what to do but somehow you always do.

(About that, if you were given a handbook on how to navigate through life could you share it with me? I've found later editions but they all have mistakes.)

As you've probably figured out, I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this letter. I woke up this morning with this feeling heavy on my spine and it was so big that I felt as if I couldn't draw a proper breath. Sometimes when I bring my camera to my eye, when I crouch down to the proper height and catch the sky blushing with the softest light, I feel the same way. When I'm in the woods, looking over a clearing by the cliffs and it's early enough that the sun is still sleepy and blurry, when I know that I'm the only human soul awake for miles, I feel this way.

They always turn into my favorite photographs.

This morning when I woke up and looked over at you – your hand resting gently on top of the covers, the thin, white curtains diluting the morning light that filtered in to play along the red strands braided through your hair, your face turned towards the light like a phototropic plant – I felt the same feeling.

So I'm not entirely sure if any of this makes sense. These words appeared on this paper borne by a desire to somehow convey this feeling to you, because it's something I'd like to share with you. This feeling of rightness, of pure and simple calmness, of still waters running deep. If it helps any, it's a sister of the feeling I get when I see a double rainbow. It's a brother of the feeling I get when I see Guillermo sit outside on a warm night, quietly tracing constellations with his eyes, coffee in hand but forgotten somewhere halfway between his mouth and his lap. It's a cousin of the feeling I get right as I'm drifting off to sleep – not awake but not quite asleep yet either.

I wish I could take a photograph of the feeling.

I would only show it to you because I'm selfish and I want to keep this feeling as concentrated as possible – a secret to share just between you and me. Knowing you, you'd probably make me enlarge it and hold an international gallery exhibit.

I know you're smiling, but come on peach pit, you know it's true.

And that's probably why I love you.

Always,

Oscar

(P.S. Speaking of bad plant-based similes which you'll tease me about for the next month, would you water the hibiscus and lavender plants on the window sill before you leave for work?)


End file.
